


Hallow's Eve

by dendraica



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Faerie Sight, Faerie Tithes, Hellinismos, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Werewolf!Berserker Pack, Witchy Twins, lost loves, sibling bonds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendraica/pseuds/dendraica
Summary: The life of a werewolf is a solitary one, but Dagur and his sister have managed well by themselves, leading a fierce roaming pack of Lycans all over the countryside. Both their lives are turned upside down after a chance encounter with the Thorston Twins, one of  whom is being hunted down to serve as the mortal lover of Mala, Queen of the Unseelie Court.





	1. Chapter 1

Cold, crisp nights like this were fantastic to ride through, with the motor of his bike growling like some furious dragon of old. Gravel crunched, wind whistled, dead leaves swirled and rasped in his wake – every sound sharp and pleasing to his ears.

Dagur grinned wildly and accelerated, consequences be damned – the policemen around here couldn't possibly frighten him. They'd sooner see him leave town than try to keep him contained in one of their pathetic jailhouses.

Only one sudden sound was _not_ pleasing to his ear, and that was his 'ringtone'. Dagur tried to ignore it, but the familiar music heralded his sister. One did not ignore a call from Heather, as he had well learned by now. Using a cellphone had been one of the few modern social things he really bothered with, and only because Heather had forced him to learn after breaking him out of the Grimborn Brothers' prison.

Honestly the motorcycle lessons had pleased him far better, but Heather was in charge and she needed him to keep up and have a reliable way of staying in contact. Though faithful about keeping his phone charged, Dagur still barely knew how to text, but at least the little faces - whatever their intended purpose - amused him greatly.

Nevertheless, despite being behind the times by roughly a hundred years out of sheer laziness (and an unfortunate decades-long stay as the Grimborns' 'guest'), there was no excuse for Dagur not to pick up.

Grumbling, he pulled over and knocked the kickstand down with a little more force than necessary. He was all sweetness when he put the phone to his ear though.

“Hello, dear sister! What’s up?”

“Don’t get cute. I told you not to go too far ahead of the pack. Or cut through town. We were going to use the mountain roads, remember?”

Yikes. She sounded angry.

“Oh come on, I have to go through – you know I couldn’t resist! I just want to make some quick stops, look at what's changed, see what the normals are up to. No trouble, really.”

“No trouble, huh?” Heather’s voice was flat. Dagur knew she was about to verbally shred him – she was so fierce like that. He loved it. Surprisingly however, she appeared to relent. "You know what, fine. Do your thing. Savage and I will take the rest of the guys to the hills. Catch up with us when you can, but don’t expect me to save you anything from the Hunt.”

“What, you’re not gonna start right away, are you? We have two days before the full moon! I have plenty of time!”

Honestly though, he was surprised she was willing to consider . . . wait, was this one of those ‘I’ll allow it but I’ll hold a grudge for the next twenty years’ things?

“To join the festivities, yeah! After all the hard work’s been done – by me, as usual - to make certain we’re all secluded and safe!”

It _was_ going to be one of those hold-a-grudge things. Dagur sighed.

“Okay, sis, you’re right - I'm not gonna stick you with all the hard stuff. I’ll be there at dawn, okay? Just give me a few hours. Please?” If anyone could pull a convincing kicked puppy act, it was Dagur. Heather paused, then gave an irritated sigh.

“Nine. Hours. If you aren’t here by sunrise, I’m coming to find you and you better pray I don’t. The last time we both left the pack by themselves –“

Dagur winced at the memory. “I know, Lars got into the livestock, and nearly got us run out of town – I remember it. Nine hours. Thanks, sis. I’ll bring you something cool.”

She’d already hung up on him. Sisters. What would he do without his? Shaking his head, Dagur put his phone away and took off again, cheerfully running a stop sign (Sven had told him they were optional.)

Consequently he nearly crashed a few moments later in order to avoid running over a cluster of small cardboard and vinyl-clad humans. They all set to screaming in alarm and scattered. Women's heads whipped from every direction and doorway to level a death-glare upon him.

Dagur flashed all of his teeth in the most apologetic grin he could manage, quickly turned his motorcycle around and fled.

Those had all been children . . . dressed up as . . . what on earth had they been dressed as? He shook his head, trying to remember the human calendar – it was forever changing over the centuries. Sometimes their holidays overlapped, strangely enough, but this one didn't seem connected with the Fae Tithes, or Lycan Moons or anything his kind marked the passage of time by.

He looked around for signs and found one – a banner draped over a storefront selling masks and . . . a careful sniff informed Dagur that those body parts in the window were not made of real flesh.

H-A-P-P-Y H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N – the sign spelled out.

Boy, did they have the date wrong. It was two entire days from now, not tonight! Were they celebrating early? Well, at least he remembered how the humans liked to celebrate it.

The last night of October, children were supposed to run door to door for candy and threaten the owners with pranks if they didn’t give some out. Admittedly more fun than bugging their own parents to just go to a store. Humans were just so creative with their holidays, even if they couldn't always manage to land it on the right date.

Dagur watched a child dressed in wolf mask, furry patches and torn plaid go running down the hill, chasing a girl in a red hood. He snorted in amusement. These were all little ones, but what did the older mortals do to celebrate their night? Did they do something even more fun? He wanted to see.

The rowdy noises of human celebration weren't too hard to find; Dagur simply followed it from one structure to the next. Wherever he could smell sex, and vomit - he avoided giving more than a cursory glance. (Honestly, he couldn’t stand the smell of vomit.)

One place smelled surprisingly decent for what it was. A tavern (no, a bar - was that what they were called now?) with colorful lighted signs in the window. Sure there was the overpowering stench of spilled beer and carmelized onions, but what was happening inside looked fun. Dancing, eating, laughing . . .

Dagur parked his motorbike and set his helmet on the seat, pulled toward the glass door like a moth to a flame. He winced as he opened it, not knowing it would be so much louder inside. It was everything he could do not to put his hands over his ears, and the pounding music was definitely going to give him a headache, but his determination for a new experience kept him moving through the crowd.

Bodies jostled against him, at first making him want to snap. Taking a deep breath, he thought of a calming phrase as he pushed through without incident. Dagur quickly won himself a corner table; a safe place to watch with the wall at his back.

Feeling hungry, he ordered steak 'fingers' - rare, and bloody - along with a baked potato. (Hey, a growing Lycan had to eat his vegetables, right?)

He eyed the crowd, watching them enjoy themselves. Maybe after he ate he'd feel a little more sociable. Dagur amused himself in the meantime by watching the dancers. One or two mortals stood out from the rest, one with reddish brown hair and another with long gold braids that swayed behind his back as he moved through the packed crowd.

Dagur was enjoying the view until a musty, cloying scent suddenly reached him. His eyes flashed yellow and he gripped the edge of his table with a clawed hand.

Something untoward was here - something only remotely connected to his kind, and absolutely not an ally. He bared his fangs, hackles raised as he sniffed the air, searching for the others exact location.

A figure suddenly entered Dagur's immediate vision, so quiet and unexpected, it actually startled a yip out of him.

"Awesome effects, man," the youth grinned, one of the mortal dancers Dagur had been admiring earlier. He was barely in his twenties and dressed in a maroon toga, with golden winged sandals on his feet and a headband with feathered wings attached. "Very real. I've never seen contacts that glow like that. Did you buy them online? And check out those fangs! So real-looking!"

Dagur nearly snarled at him to get out of his way - or better yet, get out of the entire building. Truly, all the mortals should; what was here now was far more dangerous than a Lycan.

The scent which had so alarmed him suddenly disappeared under the sweat and ale stench, leaving him unsettled and frustrated. Maybe they'd sensed him and moved on - an uncharacteristically wise move.

The boy, meanwhile, slid in the booth across from him, braids long and woven intricately with gold thread and small red beads. Dagur would have appreciated his looks even more if he wasn't so on edge.

He also wanted to know how the mortal had noticed him.

Most humans had a built in defense against sensing monsters like Dagur - or at least seeing what they truly were when they attempted to pass among mortals. Part of it was due to a spell of protection from an old witch - a friend of Dagur's late father. The rest seemed to be an impressive amount of denial that supernatural forces actually existed.

Dagur had never had a mortal see his true shape before, even if the boy did think it was some kind of costume effect. "No I . . . didn't buy anything." As could be expected, his ability for conversation with this guy was already stretched to the limits. He was starting to freak out just a little. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. I've just never seen you in town before. My name's Tuffnut. Well, not my real name, but that's what friends call me." The kid had a nice grin and his breath smelled oddly familiar. Sweet.

Dagur was too distracted to pay close attention, scrambling for something normal to say. Threatening the mortal into silence was utterly pointless; it wasn't likely anyone would believe Tuff was sober if he suddenly caught on that Dagur's 'costume' was real. So what was the harm in just pretending it was a costume?

Relaxing a bit, the Lycan leaned back in his seat and took in Tuff's appearance, noting the winged sandals. "So . . . you're dressed as one of the Hellenic gods, right? Hermes?"

Shock slammed across the young man's face. "Whoa! Dude. You guessed right! See my sister over there? She's the one dressed as Eris, walking around with a golden apple, looking like she wants kill someone."

So the older mortals played guessing games about their costumes . . . intriguing. "Why did you choose him?"

"More as a tribute, really. Hermes is awesome, and we like our trickster gods. I asked permission first - with strawberries and Red Bull. He exactly didn't say no . . . better to beg forgiveness anyway." Tuff shrugged. "Last year we were Loki and Skaldi. They were easier for some people."

Dagur grinned. "I imagine Loki would have been easy for you - with your sly grin."

Tuff actually ducked his head, as though Dagur had just paid him a compliment. He supposed it was; he hadn't been trying _not_ to compliment him.

"Hey, I want Ruff to meet you. Are you staying all night?"

"Well, for eight hours at least." Dagur peered at Tuff intently, trying to work something out. _Why_ could this boy see him? Had he been blessed? Cursed? "How old are you?" he tried. Sometimes age could be a factor, if it was a favored number.

The young man grinned. "It's our twenty first birthday in two days. Though the bartender over there thinks we're twenty three, thanks to the ID-crafting skills of our talented young friend, Gustav."

Dagur blinked, completely lost. He had no idea what any of that meant, and valiantly decided to push through by changing the subject. "One of your eyes is lighter blue than the other," he pointed out bluntly. "Just a moment ago it was hazel."

"Oh, yeah. It's my bad eye. Mom said when I was little, she tripped over me while carrying one of her 'special brews' to the couch. A little hawthorn, some St. John's Wort. You know. Witchy stuff. Anyway, some of the boiling water got in my eye.

"Hasn't been the same since. It changes color, I see weird stuff that makes no sense. Doc says it'll only get worse when I'm older, but whatever. So will everything else, right? I just kinda roll with it and blame the pot when stuff gets too weird."

And now Dagur was confused again. "What pot?" He glanced around for errant cookware, but Tuff didn't notice - already standing to wave someone over. He wasn't having any luck.

"Oh come on, Sis! Don't - hey, don't ignore me! She knows I hate that! Eh. Maybe it's because I stole her drink when she wasn't looking." Tuff smirked craftily at Dagur, and he surprised himself by laughing in response. He liked this mortal.

Tuff excused himself to go chase down his twin, and Dagur relaxed. His mood only improved when his dinner arrived and he made fast work of it, blissfully lapping up the bloody juices from his plate.

He was wondering idly why Tuff had yet to return when that scent came back - full force. All at once, he realized _why_ the mortal's breath had smelled sweet.

_Maybe it's because I stole her drink when she wasn't looking._

Dagur's eye caught a movement. He growled lowly as a pair of hulking forms dragged the limp body of a human between them, unnoticed. None of the humans looked at the Fae or their victim, absently moving out of the way for various compelling reasons.

He recognized the glint of gold on winged sandals and stood up, moving to follow.

* * *

“We got ‘er,” one of the goblins rasped, and the tall figure waiting by the tiled wall stepped forward to look over their catch.

To all mortal appearances, the Unseelie was beautiful; pale and elegant, with long red hair. Only a sneer of bored impatience marred his handsome features.

“For such a simple task, it certainly took you long enough. Bring her closer to me, Dogsbreath. You, Thuggory, guard the door. There was a Lycan here - if he chooses to meddle, he can track us through the maze I wove. We shouldn’t stay long.”

“Um. M’Lord? I was just wonderin’ . . .”

Throk sighed and glowered at the one called Thuggory. The fool always had to second-guess everything. It made even the easiest missions nigh impossible to conduct quickly. All they were tasked to do this evening was to secure and spirit away the mortal girl their Queen had chosen. So far, it had been unbearably tedious, much like the human music they’d been forced to endure in this tacky little pub.

“What is your concern this time?” Throk gritted out.

The goblin took off his knitted cap and wrung it in his hands. “I know we put the stuff in the mortal’s drink, but I really don’t think this is the same mortal we’s supposed to get.”

Dogsbreath groaned. “Ach, not this again. She’s the lassie, alright? She’s wearin’ a dress, inn’t she?”

“I dunno, I reckon maybe that’s a toga? It’s the wrong color anyhow, weren’t she wearin’ black?”

“Well, just look at that face!” Dogsbreath lifted their prisoner’s chin with a clawed hand. “Such delicate features! Obviously it’s the lassie! She drank the drink, didn’t she? What, you wanna check her drawers?”

“Right, lissen, what’s in the drawers don’t rightly matter; if they calls themself a lassie when they wakes up, then they’s a lassie. But the point is - what I’m tryin’ to say is – I don’t think that one’s the lassie we was sent to get!”

Throk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me have a look then, you pathetic imbeciles.”

He approached the dazed mortal and snapped a finger in front of their face. “Awaken.”

“Huh? Wh-What?” Tuffnut raised his head, blinking hard. Throk frowned sharply.

His mood didn’t improve any when Tuff took one look at Throk and made a noise of fascinated disgust. “Whoa, is that your face or a mask? Kind of looks like Freddy Krueger, if he got his nose caught in a taffy-puller.”

Throk stiffened, utterly insulted, while both his goblins hooted with surprised laughter.

“’Ey boss, she saw right through your pretty glamour, she did!” Dogsbreath crowed, quite forgetting his place. “Never thought I’d see the day you was dissed by a mortal!”

“Silence! You fools dosed the wrong drink!” Throk snarled at them. “This is the girl’s _brother_.” Wisely, the goblins clammed up and looked anywhere else but their enraged master.

Tuff blinked. “Spiked the wrong . . . ? Wait a fuckin’ second, were you creeps trying to _roofie my sister_?”

Furious, Tuffnut didn’t even wait for an answer, just taking a wild swing at Throk’s face. The boy yelped as his knuckles nearly broke against an unyielding surface – as though he’d punched a wall of brick instead of flesh.

In retaliation, Throk moved inhumanly swift, forcefully slamming Tuff against a mirror by his throat. Spiderweb cracks branched out behind him and small beads of blood traveled their many paths. Tuffnut whimpered in pain as Throk gripped his chin, forcing him to look at the enraged Fae.

“So, you can see my true form, can you? Which eye reveals me?”

“T-True form -?” Tuffnut managed, trying to create some distance between himself and Throk with a bracing leg. The Fae’s claws punished him cruelly, three lines of ragged red slicing through skin and cloth (while narrowly missing an important piece of Tuff’s anatomy.)

He yelled in pain and shrank back, twisting his hips away to avoid further injury. Throk again gripped the terrified mortal’s face and prodded beneath one of Tuff’s eyes with a sharp nail. “Tell me which eye, boy. Or I take both out, and replace them with eyes of wood.”

Tuffnut swallowed his terror. “Listen, I don’t even care what you are - y-you keep the hell away from my sister!” he gritted out.

The Unseelie smiled nastily. “Both it is then.” As he reared back his hand to deliver painful blindness, part of the wall behind Thuggory simply collapsed, wilting into the black slime of rotten fungi.

“Hi! Nice maze, Throk. Pretty gross, but it actually held me up a bit,” Dagur said, stepping through. He was slipping something metal over his knuckles, already moving toward Throk.

“Ah. Dagur. So glad you've made it." Throk sneered. He stayed where he was, still pinning Tuffnut, while his goblins sought to block Dag

Dogsbreath intercepted him first, the poor bastard.

Dagur palmed the Fae’s small coconut-shaped cranium, squeezing until plates shifted and shattered. Dogsbreath went down, squealing – trying in vain to reshape his skull. The luckless Thuggory, beside himself with fear, ripped a faucet off a nearby sink.

“Ha! Eat silver, ya filthy beast!” he shouted swinging the dented piece of metal at his foe.

Bemused, Dagur caught the faucet in his hand and crumpled it like tin foil. “Nope, sorry. It’s just shiny cheap steel, buddy. But I like your enthusiasm.” A hard punch sent Thuggory’s nose and mouth into his face, leaving a puckered imprint of Dagur’s fist.

Throk curled his lip as he realized what Dagur had armed himself with. “Iron knuckles. Clever, though it must feel a bit like cheating.” He let go of Tuffnut, who slid down the wall, panting with fear and pain. The boy looked at Dagur, eyes wide.

The Lycan glanced at him, but only for a second as he and Throk circled each other. Most mortals would have tried to run by now, but this boy stayed – watching him. Was he concerned for Dagur? A foolish thought; he was probably just too frightened to move.

Throk was much faster than Dagur, able to avoid his iron-clad blows and land in plenty of his own. Tuff watched as one of Throk’s hands morphed, claws becoming dangerously longer, sharper, tips frosting as though dipped in mercury.

If he were stupid, Tuff would have chalked it up to extraordinarily realistic movie effects (as ridiculously out of place as such things would be in a men’s bar bathroom) but if he had one skill, it was the ability to adapt to new truths as they were presented.

He could see that whenever Dagur moved, he appeared less human – more lupine. Snarling like a wolf, the Lycan dodged away from blows, timed himself carefully to pounce upon any opening Throk left him.

More undeniable yet of his defender’s true shape was the large bushy tail peeking out from beneath Dagur’s leather jacket. It didn’t hang there limply, like a strip of faux fur, but rather moved with him – hairs stiff and bristling with rage.

And if those raised hackles were any indication of his mood, it meant Dagur was no friend of Throk’s, nor any of the Fae that had sought to capture his sister.

Tuff saw Throk’s hand dart to deal harm to the Lycan and shouted a warning. As a result, Dagur was able to avoid the lethal silver-tipped blow, though just barely. Throk’s claws ripped through the sleeve of the Lycan’s thick jacket, barely nicking him. Dagur groaned and backed up, on the defensive and swaying slightly. Apparently even a little silver could prove his undoing.

Tuffnut thought quickly as the Lycan leaped back into the fray, regardless of how close he’d come to death. If silver could kill werewolves, and iron hurt Fae . . . He tried to remember something his mother had told him once, in a story . . . a peculiar rhyme.

 _The Courts of Faerie,_  
_Light and Dark,_  
_Despite all feuds_  
_They share a mark -_  
_No One Faerie_  
_Can ‘ere withstand_  
_The Iron Bells_  
_of Mortal Man_

Hurriedly, Tuff scrambled for his phone as the fight raged on around him. Dagur was wise now to Throk’s weapon, and both immortals danced around each other – equally matched and hopelessly unable to win. Time to wreck the playing field, and go find his sister.

“If I can’t take the girl tonight, I’ll only return for them both on the ‘morrow. What will you do, Lycan? Give your own life to protect them, like your sister once tried to do for –“

Throk’s taunting words cut off with an abysmal shriek, as a cacophany of multiple cathedral bells echoed against the tiled walls. He fell to his knees and clapped his hands over his ears. Throk’s glamour left him, betraying grey skin and abruptly fading youth.

In answer to Dagur’s confused stare, Tuff somewhat proudly held up his phone - revealing a video of Notre Dame’s bell tower playing the vespers. “Nice,” Dagur whistled. Throk made a surprisingly quick lunge for Tuffnut, causing the boy to yelp and drop his phone as he scrambled out of reach.

The phone skittered across the floor, landing beneath a stall. With an unearthly garbled howl, Throk dragged himself across the floor in pursuit of silencing it.

Welp, time to go. Dagur smashed the last unbroken mirror and reached under the sink to pull Tuff to his feet. "That will stop them from getting back to their realm - we have a few minutes, but once he recovers then we need to be long gone," the Lycan informed him.

He moved swiftly, half-carrying Tuff through the desiccated wall into practically the same bathroom, though this one contained four slightly unsteady mortals, laughing uproariously at nothing. Not one of them noticed the gaping rotten hole next to them, or the fell creature writhing within.

"My phone!" protested Tuff as he was forced to sprint alongside Dagur. He was fast when he wanted to be - for a mortal - but running wasn't something he enjoyed. "I gotta find Ruff!"

"Wasn't she just here? You don't know how to find your own sibling without a phone? Just catch her scent-" Dagur trailed off at Tuffnut's deadpan look. "Right. Forgot."

He could still smell something on Tuffnut's breath, however - and it needed to be taken care of now rather than later. Dagur let go of Tuff, who immediately started pushing through the dancers, calling for his twin. "Excuse me," he said to the balding gold-bearded barkeep, "There's been a fight in the gentlemen's. Ongoing. You might need to go break some heads before they collapse another wall."

The man swore, spat, and retrieved a spiked bat from under the table. Dagur didn't envy the poor fools in the men's room right now. He jumped over the bar, much to the shock and applauding laughter from its patrons and located the cup Tuffnut had drunk from. It was easy to find; liquid glowing strangely pale green instead of amber. Dagur fished one cherry out of a jarful, and used it to mop up the remnants of the potion.

Goblin fruit was lethal to humans unless given in two doses. The first dose withered you away with longing, cause you to agree to anything for the chance to taste such goods once more. The second dose was bitter and it burned, but ultimately saved a mortal life. The goblins assisting Throk had been remarkably careless about leaving the dregs behind - which was fortunate for Tuff. Dagur didn't need to contend with a mortal slowly going insane from an impossible craving.

He made his escape, ignoring the disappointed calls of those hoping for free drinks, and bore down on Tuffnut. The youth was frantic and blood (his own?) was staining his toga, trickling down his leg. "This is bad," he fretted. "Everyone who saw her is saying she left, alone, and I have no way to call her - what if they get her?"

Dagur looked away from the blood and met his eyes. "They won't. You should eat this."

"What? No! This is no time for eating! I have to find -"

Not having the patience to explain, Dagur forced Tuff's jaw open and shoved the cherry inside. The burning taste caused the boy to arch in his arms and Dagur had to hold tight, with a hand clamped over his mouth. "Swallow!" he ordered firmly.

Tuff whimpered shrilly, and made himself obey. Dagur held him up until he felt the boy swallow and then loosened his hold, letting Tuff go limp and shiver against him. It was only then he noticed the shocked stares they were getting.

"Damn," one girl muttered beneath her breath, giving Tuffnut an appraising once-over.

Dagur knew that look and bared his teeth possessively before remembering himself.

"Let's go. I need to call my sister and pack. She needs to know if Mala's involved." He grabbed Tuff's wrist and pulled him after, toward the exit.

"Wait, if you have a phone let me use it! I can warn her -"

"Right now, they have you marked. They know who you are, where you are, what you're doing. And they're going to count on you leading them straight to your sister before they try searching themselves. Throk is the Fae Queen's most efficient and trusted soldier, and he'll need time to heal."

Dagur gave Tuff a small shove toward his motorcycle, and handed over his helmet. "Put that on. Where's your town's cemetery? The older the better."

Tuff was getting that glazed look again, but it was from panic rather than any spell. Dagur wanted to snap at him, but stopped himself. The boy had handled himself well in the actual crisis, but he was still mortal. He was unused to all of this, and now it was his sister who was in danger.

Gently, he coaxed Tuff to look him in the eye. "Whatever happens, I'm going to see it through with you until the end. I've dealt with the Unseelie court before - so has my sister. Heather's got a bit of a personal vendetta against their Queen. If anyone can help your sis, you can trust us."

The boy swallowed. "Okay. Well. Hermes isn't telling me _not_ to trust you right now."

Dagur beamed. "That's good, right? Hop on behind me and hold tight. About that cemetery -"

Arms wrapped around the Lycan's middle as Tuffnut obeyed. "You should head to our house. Mom's at her tarot place, but we live on The Grove. Straight up that huge hill and the second left on the way down. It has Rowan trees all over the place, and it used to be a graveyard before the church burned down in the eighteen hundreds."

"Hmm. Red berries of a Rowan - whoever planted those was smart. Fairies hate red. And the graves are still on hallowed ground - none of Throk's kind can set foot in that place." Dagur started his bike and got onto the road. He could smell the blood streaming down Tuff's thigh; he'd have to look at it once they got to the safety of the Rowan grove.

It didn't take long to find the place and park in the old tumble-down churchyard, with skeletal charred ruins marking where a steeple had once stood. Even in two hundred years, nobody had sought to knock them down and build something else. There was an old power attached to them - something that still commanded respect.

Tuff climbed off gingerly and sat on a mossy planter bed, where long ago some monk might have attempted to grow a garden.

Dagur let him and quickly killed his engine, already dialing his sister's number.

Heather sounded annoyed, until he said a name. Then her voice was like ice, cracking beneath the unwary traveler who stood over an abyss.

"Stay where you are, brother. We're on our way."

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

There hadn’t been much to say after that – Heather expected him to stay put, so Dagur stayed. He wasn’t usually so well-trained, except when she sounded all scary like that.

  
Over the centuries they had their spats. She’d won each time, always willing to hurt him more than he could bring himself to hurt her, and so Dagur had learned how to behave . . . somewhat.

  
The lycan sniffed the air and caught the far off scent of diesel fumes and blood, and grinned. The pack had caught a deer, something to hold off their insatiable hunger for a little while longer. Dagur turned his attention back to Tuffnut, who was gingerly trying to separate fabric from his bloody hip.

  
“Here. Let me help.” The Lycan knelt and lifted the mortal’s costume above his waist, ignoring his mortified squawk of protest.

  
Throk’s claws had rent through the side of Tuff’s boxers, leaving the band hanging around him by a precious few elastic threads. The wound wasn’t quite deep enough to need stitches, but it bled a slow thick ichor – staining the cloth black. Dagur scowled and started to pull that ruined garment away too, making Tuff yelp and push away his hands.

  
“Are you ticklish?” Dagur asked, bemused.

  
“No! Well - actually, yeah, but that’s not the point!” Tuff hunched over, trying in vain to preserve his modesty.

  
“Oh. You’re embarrassed. Well, you shouldn’t be, and those aren’t going to stay up long anyway. Besides, all that black stuff needs to be cleaned away from you. If not you’ll never heal, and Mala will be able to hunt you down.”

  
Face slowly turning red, Tuff looked down at his knees for a long moment. He nodded hesitantly, before Dagur could impatiently prod him. “Okay, fine. Just don’t make this weird. What do you want me to do?”

  
“I need you to lie on your back and let me help you. It shouldn’t hurt much - I’ve done this before. Well, give or take a few decades - but I’m sure I remember everything.”

  
Groaning faintly in distress, the mortal laid down over the moss and closed his eyes tightly. Dagur’s hands gently pulled away the shredded underthings, sliding them carefully over Tuff’s wounded hip and freeing his legs. He tossed the garment aside then bent over Tuff to examine the wound.

  
The night air was cold and by contrast he could feel the boy’s warm skin shivering beneath his palms as they ghosted over his body, carefully inspecting him for any other cuts Throk might have inflicted. He could hear Tuff’s pulse quickening, and it honestly made his own speed up - just knowing he had such an effect on him. For a few minutes - which felt far too long - Dagur made himself leave Tuff’s side to venture further into the ruins of the church.

  
As he’d suspected, the baptism fountain was still standing before the altar, only mildly damaged by time, and holding fresh rainwater in its basin. He ventured into the collapsed brick and cobble section that would be the priest’s vestry in search of a vessel. There weren’t any chalices or goblets, but there was a soda can someone had discarded not too long ago. He went back to the fountain and filled it up with water before going back to Tuffnut.

  
Dagur wondered if maybe the boy had dozed off waiting for him; his eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell peacefully. He slowly poured the cold water he’d collected over the wound, and Tuff gave a ragged gasp, flinching hard.

  
“Easy,” he soothed, putting a hand on Tuff’s chest to keep him lying still. The mortal’s imploring stares and shivers were adorable, and earned him a fond pat on the cheek as the Lycan continued rinsing the tainted gashes.

  
As clean water poured across his skin, the little wild succulents beneath Tuff’s body began to wither slowly, dying as the cursed ichor drained the life from them. It didn’t appear as though it felt too good coming out either – Tuff’s skin was steadily rising in temperature and he had started to writhe. Even as the blackened blood rinsed away, more swelled up to take its place - still a dark midnight color instead of healthy red blood.

  
He couldn't help feel a small measure of admiration that Tuff was holding back his screams, though the discomfort was making him squirm all the more beneath Dagur’s firm hold. More and more black sprang up from his wound, even as Dagur rinsed his hip a second, then third time. He frowned; normally this would have cleared by now.

  
Tuffnut hitched, grasping the Lycan’s arm before he could move away again to collect more water. “Um, hey - is-is it almost over?” he managed, voice uneven.

  
“This is a stubborn wound. The water from the church fountain’s doing better than I expected, but it’s not enough. You need something more. Do you have any candy or chewing gum?”

  
The boy stared up at him, uncomprehending. “Um, it’s Halloween, so yeah - there’s candy everywhere. Why - how would that help?”

  
“It would help me, not you. This is going to taste just awful.”

  
With no warning, Dagur leaned down and ran a cool tongue across Tuff’s hip.

  
“Aaaugh!” Tuff shouted and tried to wipe it off instinctually. He wasn’t terribly offended; Dagur supposed there was a limit to everyone’s comfort level involving bodily fluids. Werewolf slobber on an open wound was apparently Tuffnut’s.

  
Whatever the case, his hunch had been successful. Dagur caught Tuff’s hands and held them up away from his hip. “No, no, no – it’s alright, it's working! Look!” he yelped excitably.

  
Where his saliva had touched the wound, the welling blood had turned red and it dribbled down Tuff’s thigh at the exact same thickness and speed that healthy blood should travel. It only left more questions than answers, but results were results.  
“Why is this working and not the church water?” Tuff asked.

  
The Lycan shrugged. “Not sure. I guess it comes down to which one do you believe in more? Me, or some ancient pool of holy water?” Dagur grinned, feeling just a little smug. His tail wagged and he caught the mortal glancing at it in consternation, which only amused him further.

  
Tuff caught himself staring and looked away, face flushing. “My sis and I were never baptized. Our Mom doesn’t believe in that stuff. Maybe that has more to do with it than anything else?”

  
“Oh.” Dagur deflated a little. “I suppose that's more of a possibility. Either way, I think we should keep doing what works, hmm?”

  
Before Tuff had time to protest, Dagur had pushed him down into the succulents again, and ran his tongue across Tuffnut’s hip, cleaning the wounds thoroughly. The noise he made gave Dagur goosebumps.

  
The lycan knew this wasn’t a good time to be enjoying himself, when were other more pressing matters. Nevertheless, he liked the frantic sounds the boy was making, as well as the nearly inaudible ones he could hear bubbling deep in Tuff’s chest, trying so hard not to become a wail.

  
Lycans could heal from any wound that wasn’t ash wood, or Fae silver - the ever changing metals of Faerie simply didn’t allow their bodies to recover. Throk had used no metals to deal this blow, simply his dirty little claws - though they were still enough to kill a mortal. Luckily, Dagur’s saliva was more than enough to cleanse it.

  
Tuff was panting desperately by the time he was done, body glistening with sweat. He had his arms wrapped around the Lycan’s forearm, hugging it tight to his chest. Dagur stopped to regard him a moment - pale trembling skin with painted gold accents, laced up winged sandals, long braids fanned out across the surviving plant life.

  
The temptation to give in, to kiss and nuzzle and ravish that lean body, was almost too much.

  
Dagur made himself stand up instead, breathlessly pulling Tuff into a sitting position. He pointedly didn’t look at Tuff’s lap, and Tuffnut just as pointedly drew his legs up as much as he could so that Dagur couldn’t. (It was honestly cute, how shy these mortals were.)

  
“Are we . . . is it done? And by that, I mean can I have my clothes back?”

  
Oh, that adorable little blush was only going to burn hotter.

  
Dagur glanced over the stained toga Tuffnut had been wearing and shook his head, walking toward his bike. “Sorry, but you can’t wear anything that black stuff touched. Even if you turn it inside out, old Throkkie and his gang might still find you. But I have a spare shirt in my pack that might just cover you down to your knees,” he called over his shoulder.

  
Just as he’d expected, Tuff’s face grew even redder behind his hair, and he looked up sharply, eyes wide with panic. “Only a shirt?” the boy whined.

  
“Relax, it’s long. I guess I have spare boxers too, but they'd be a bit drafty in the back.” Dagur wagged his tail for emphasis. Tuff’s eyes became riveted to it once again, seemingly against his will.

  
“Guess that makes sense. I mean, you can't keep it in your pants. It's too long.”

  
Unsure if that was some kind of dirty joke, Dagur looked back over his shoulder, and noticed where the boy’s eyes kept flicking. Just to be sure, he wagged it again, and Tuff’s eyes followed its movements. Interesting.

  
“Uh. Here, try a pair anyway. They'll probably fall right off your hips though. I got kinda round last winter. It’ll keep you covered until my sister meets us, and then we can go to your house.”

  
He rummaged in the saddlebag for a pair of clean boxer shorts, and an old grunge band t-shirt that had seen better days - full of rips and holes. His chest was broader than Tuff’s though, so it really would cover the boy to the middle of his thighs, however drafty it was.

  
Muttering thanks, Tuffnut turned it inside out and pulled it carefully over his head, getting just a hint of glitter from his winged headgear on the fabric. As predicted the boxers didn't even go around his waist, and there was a hole cut just above his backside. It was still far better than nothing. Tuff tied the elastic waistband into a knot to keep them there, rather stubbornly.  
Dagur hardly minded. Maybe it was weird, but he was happy to have garments with the boy’s scent on it, in case they parted ways. It should make him easy to find again if anything.

  
Not too far off, he heard the roar of his sister’s bike tearing down the lane, and the others just a few blocks behind her. She’d be here in a few minutes, at the speed she was going. And there would be precious little time for talking; likely she’d already picked up Throk’s scent.

  
His phone rang again, and he picked it up.

  
“Is the mortal with you able to travel?” Heather asked without preamble.

  
“He’s doing better now, yeah. Think he might need to stop at his house, though-”

  
“There’s no time. Get him on your bike and meet me at the crossroads. Mala’s topside, and on the move. I can smell the Fae bitch from here.”

  
Dagur frowned sharply. If Mala was topside, it could only mean one thing.

  
She had found Tuffnut’s sister.

  
* * *

  
Throk was decidedly not in a pleasant mood.

  
He also wasn’t in a very pleasant shape, his glamor having been burned off by the damned ringing bells. It would take a while to recover enough energy to restore it. As it was, he’d needed every last ounce of magic just to keep himself alive.

  
Squat, grey, and lumpy, Throk hurried through the underground to his Queen’s court, holding the smashed remains of what had once been a phone in his claws.

  
His overlong teeth gnashed in both irritation and dread; Mala did not appreciate her subjects approaching her without glamor. He did not wish to approach Mala in his ugliness, but worse for him if he elected to save his pride over bringing her a way to find the girl.

  
He’d had to practically destroy the phone to get it to stop making that horrid noise. Breaking the screen had only made the bells sound distorted, which had helped a little but not enough. Out of desperation, he’d submerged it in a toilet and that had granted him merciful silence.

  
Throk and human technology did not get along at all, but he’d heard this sort of device was what the humans used to stay in contact over long distances. By some sort of scientific magic, it kept people’s voices stored in its memory, so it could be used to reach their whereabouts. Hopefully Queen Mala could use that.

  
If not, he would take whatever punishment was due for failing her.

  
Dogsbreath and Thuggory had been taken to the Ancients for healing, but Throk’s turn for rest was yet to come. He sniffed, squared his shoulders, and pushed back the green fronds that covered the tunnel to her throne room.

  
Mala didn’t so much as glance at him, but the Court noticed his state and broke into hushed whispers. By the stiff set of the Queen’s shoulders, she knew he was there and was electing to ignore him.

  
A suitable punishment, one he could accept, but time was of the essence here. “My Queen,” he rasped, dropping to one malformed knee. He held out the device. “A thousand retributions upon me for this, but the girl was not captured. She appears to have not drunk the potion. It was the boy twin we encountered and drugged instead.”

  
The Queen stared at him coolly. “I see. And this mere mortal boy managed to best you . . .” Her disdainful gaze landed on the ruined technology in his grasp, “while under the effects of said potion, with a _cell_ _phone_?”

  
“Apologies, my Queen,” Throk entreated, bowing further. “His Lycan protector distracted me, while he used his, er, cell phone to play the sound of bells. And then, like a coward, he ran. I had marked him, hoping he would lead us to the girl – but he seems to be staying away from her. I hoped you could use this, somehow.”

  
He held out the phone and Mala took it, humming thoughtfully. “Mm. A Lycan, you say? Very well, Throk, I shall attempt to make do with what you’ve gained. Everyone, leave us.”

  
Fairly quickly, the Court made their exit. Queen Mala commanded wariness and the utmost respect. She never had to request for anything twice – at least not from the wiser of her subjects.

  
Mala didn’t seem to notice any of the parting curtsies and bows, taking them for granted as her brow furrowed in concentration. In less time than an exchange of breath, the wreckage of plastic and lithium in her hand once again resembled a working phone.

  
It chimed beautifully as it rebooted - with a song that was definitely not factory-reset. In fact, if any wandering mortal had heard such notes playing, the unattainable desire of hearing such a melody again would slowly drive them to insanity.

  
“Your Majesty is astonishingly talented,” Throk praised her, honestly impressed. “However do you bend such ridiculous mortal contraptions to your will?”

  
“Simple, Throk. I am not a complete Luddite.”

  
Mala found what she was searching for, by virtue of absently willing the phone to manifest certain settings. For instance, there was now a lovely secluded waterfall scene on the screen’s background, complete with the faint chirping of birdsong and rushing water (plus the unlimited memory to host such a effect.)

  
“I have found her number. _Not_ attributed to her rightful name.”

  
Throk risked peering at the screen.

  
“Butt Elf?” he read out loud, wrinkling his snout.

  
“A curiously disrespectful thing to call one’s sister. No matter, she’ll be far happier in my realm. Possibly even grateful.”

  
“Yes, my Queen. You deserve a beautiful and loyal mortal by your side, certainly not the complaining, antagonistic creature you have now.”

  
Mala chuckled and reached over to pat Throk’s cheek. “Yes, you’re right. She was beautiful enough to put up with for a while, but now? She quite bores me. Her long years of suffering will me will end, once we take her to her new master.”

  
She clicked on the girl’s unfortunate nickname and it opened a call screen. Mala was in no mood to try and mimic a mortal’s voice - especially not the boy’s. Fortunately, humans also used the written word on their devices.

  
Her task would be far simpler, thus.

  
* * *

  
Ruff scowled at her ringing phone, debating whether to just ignore it.

  
Her stupid brother had pleaded and cajoled her into wearing this stupid costume and go to that stupid party at the bar, where all those stupid guys had refused to leave her alone.

  
They hadn’t even guessed her outfit right! They hadn’t even tried – one particular moron trying to pick her up had suggested she was a blonde “Wednesday Addams.”

  
Well, admittedly, that would have been sort of cool – but his answer was still wrong. For crying out loud, she’d been literally carrying around a spray-painted golden apple; that should have been a major clue! Why did nobody appreciate how awesome Discord was?

  
She was just making her way to the video rental store at this point. She’d pick out some bad horror films, buy some bags of candy at the mini-mart, and just go home and binge.

  
Way better than some lame party with ‘free’ drinks that your brother didn’t even let you try. Selfish jerk.

  
Ruff snarled as the texting chimes didn’t let up. Tuffnut had better be apologizing his scrawny ass off. That or he’d come up with a plan to prevent this entire Halloween night going down the toilet.

  
She yanked the phone out of her pocket, angrily scrolling up and then blinked in surprise. He . . . was apologizing. Not in the fake way, but in the way her brother always apologized when he meant it.

  
Also, he had a cool surprise for her in the old Oak grove. Ruff grinned, intrigued, and tried to call him.

  
The phone rang but he didn’t pick up. It puzzled her, but the idiot had probably turned his phone off or something. Or forgot to charge his battery again.

  
She rolled her eyes fondly and changed direction away from downtown, heading toward the old road that went by the woods. It would be faster on her bicycle, but she wasn’t going all the way home just to get it.

  
Her heart felt inexplicably light as she walked toward the grove, feeling a strange euphoria in the blue fog that was rolling over tangled tree roots and mossy ferns. It was cool and spooky, and though she knew Tuff hadn’t planned it she still loved that he’d caused her to see it.

  
Ruff grinned again and soon she was running down the beaten dirt path, gauzy long sleeves and dress floating eerily behind her. The waxing moon’s light collided with the fog just right, making her feel like some earthbound wood-spirit.

  
The girl panted in exhilaration as she tore down the path - hair slowly coming undone, and feeling a wild joy that Halloween hadn’t brought to her in years.

  
* * *

  
She was combing her hair slowly, trying to ignore the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to her chamber. If ‘chamber’ was what you could call this charming hovel.

  
Astrid ignored the figure that climbed to the top of the stairs, even as it coughed to get her attention. One of her ears flicked back to indicate she had heard the cough, but the rest of her stayed facing forward, stubbornly perched on top of the mossy boulder.

  
Her tail swished languidly across its surface as the gold collar around her neck gleamed like starlight. The reason it gleamed so was perhaps because it had been made from such material - hammered from the dying rays of a fallen star by dwarves.  
There was a chain that connected her collar to a ring on the boulder, made by the same skilled craftsmen and of far different things than starlight. Astrid had forgotten exactly of what over the centuries, but that mattered very little. She could not break them.

  
“It pains me,” said the voice, “To see you so placidly accepting your fate.”

  
Astrid curled her lip, both ears flattening towards the speaker in annoyance. “If you are looking for entertainment, Throk,” she spat, “Then I suggest you throw yourself headlong into a vat of molten iron. Perhaps you’ll become a lovely church steeple, or a statue commemorating some foolish mortal’s passing.”

  
Throk only snickered, daring to come closer. “You can rail against me all you like. Everyone Mala has turned over for the tithe has buckled, snivelled, begged for her to reconsider. It has never changed her mind, but you . . . you never once bent to any of her Majesty’s whims. It’s odd . . . you certainly could have been one of her favorites had you only just-“

  
“Just what? Bent to the will of a madwoman? She wouldn’t have kept me any longer if I had - I would have bored her just the same! Like _you_ probably bore her!”

  
“Ah, but I am unquestionably loyal, which my Queen values far more than a spiteful pet huldra, who cannot even be trusted with a hairpin!”

  
Astrid held herself straighter, seeming to glow with pride. “I showed her, didn’t I? She thinks she can just steal me away from my love, and not pay for it! I heard it took all of the Ancients to save her eye.”

  
“Prideful wretched creature!” Throk snapped, clearly losing his temper. Astrid gave him a disdainful look and her eyes widened with gleeful surprise. What had happened to him?

  
Before she could ask, Throk railed on against her. “Your loved one begged Queen Mala to save you from the mortal wizard who ensnared you, and who would have made you even more miserable than you are, even now! Your loved one has turned her back upon you, not even making one last attempt to save your sorry hide! But it’s not too late for you.”

  
Astrid scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  
“There are two nights until Hallow’s Eve, when Hell opens its gates for a trade. If you beg Mala’s forgiveness, if you show her you can be tame and compliant -“

  
She burst out laughing in disdain, nearly falling backwards off her perch. “Let me guess - she’ll throw that poor mortal girl she’s hunting into Hell, and keep me instead? And all I have to do is what, a favor? A favor for Queen Mala that makes her task in getting my _replacement_ easier? You must think I’m truly stupid.”

  
Astrid paused and stared hard at Throk, who looked strangely nervous. “That, or you think your Queen is mistaken, in wanting a mortal lover, rather than her own kind?”

  
“I never said that!” Throk snapped, drawing himself up. He was still lacking in height and without glamor, so it had no effect as far as commanding respect went. “It isn’t unheard of - many Faerie Queens have taken mortal lovers in the past! It’s simply . . .”

  
She turned to face him finally, tufted tail winding through the air in intrigue. “Simply what?”

  
“The girl is knowledgeable in Faerie. Her mother has taught her certain things that were better to remain secret - and her brother can see us. With no tool, simply his own eyes. I would have blinded him, were it not for -“

  
“I get it. You’re worried this girl might have leverage over Mala? I hope she does. I can withstand any torment in Hell, so long as I know that Mala is also suffering!” Astrid spat.

  
Throk hissed at her and raised a hand to strike the huldra but she threw her brush at his face hard enough to knock him off his feet. A huldra’s strength was enough to bend a horseshoe in half, and so it was no light blow she had dealt him. Throk sat up woozily, nose oozing black liquid, and had to scramble out of the way as she jumped off her rock, attempting to land on him.

  
He fled unsteadily toward the stairs and down them, as Astrid sent a barrage of insults after. She fumed and bristled for some time after he was gone, refusing to settle into despair.

  
She knew her love would come for her in time.

  
Heather would find her and win her back from Mala. This time, for sure.

 

 

 

  
tbc


End file.
